Gadzooks! I can't believe it's Tuesday already.
That can mean only one thing: The new edition of CarnivAOL is out and ready for our greedy perusal.
I've read some of the entries included, and I think Paul did a really great job of putting it all together --in spite of an entry of mine (which entry, you ask? Well, you'll just have to go there to find out).
See Ya,
Dee Pee
So, what do creationists put in their gas tanks?
Alright, this is my second time posting this odd little question. The last time I posted it, I was neither happy with the wording, nor was I all that thrilled with the sudden inundation of emails telling me that there is simply no way the Earth can be more than five or ten-thousand years old, at best. However, oddly, they all seem to end pretty much the same way: "I will pray for you."
Then, they tell me that God put all the oil there for us to use, and I ask, "Why would God give us so little oil in one particular place that we have to kill each other for it?"
Strangely, as an answer, I haven't heard anything other than the ubiquitous "who are you to question God? I will pray for you."
Don't get me wrong. I respect all religious beliefs, and they do serve a purpose on the planet. Sometimes, I wish I were wired to simply accept things on faith. I think my day might be somewhat better if I could simply look at the sixty bucks I've rung up on the gas pump and think, "hmmm... God must not want me to eat or pay rent this month. I guess I should stop stiffing the collection plate, huh?"
Church sign courtesy of Church Sign Generator
I have a huge skunk waddling around my yard in the afternoon sun. I think that's kind of an odd thing for a skunk to be out doing at this time of day, but, wouldn't you know it, that smelly creature is just somewhat adorable --so long as I'm not outside.
I know what you're all thinking. "Dan? Your cat kind of looks like a skunk, ya know?"
Believe me, I know. Trust me, it's unbelievably easy to get those two animals mixed up at, say... Three o'clock, Sunday morning when I am navigating my way down the alley. It goes something like this:
"Cat-dog!" I say when I see him, and I hold my arms out and stumble after the black and white furry mass. "Here kitty, kitty, kitty."
Fortunately, the animal scuttles off into the night, and I lumber my besotted way toward the house. When I open the door, I notice the cat sitting there looking exceptionally angry for being trapped inside, and the only thing my challenged mind can come up with is, "How'd you get a key?"
Sure, I could have gotten a dog. I probably would have had a lot of fun with a normal labrador or border collie. But why? Why should a guy like me have normal pets in his world?
As it stands, I have one cat that is completely deaf, somewhat blind, and when she chases squirrels across the yard, her back-end moves a little faster than her front-end. This usually ends with her winding up in a twisted, furry wreck of seriously confused cat.
As for this other semi-cat, he seems to be more dog than cat. He'll eat anything that hits the floor --scraps of food, raw potatoes, fingers, anything. I say "Go out now?" And he throws himself at the door, chattering like mad and wagging his tail to the point of knocking me off my feet. Everyday, I give him a nice, big bowl of fresh water, and he turns his nose up at it and runs straight to the bathroom to drink from the "eternal fountain."
Even worse, now that spring has finally sprung here in Wisconsin, Dog-Cat practically wets himself with the notion of going outside. And, once he's released into the world, he bounds down the front steps, leaps into the air, extends his claws and pastes himself to the streetside telephone-pole like some sort of bizarre, gravity-defying, velcro pet.
Then, after having spent his energy on that little display of animal acrobatics, he then climbs up and sleeps on top of my Jeep. Not bad, right? Wrong.
Cat-Dog has a tendency of sleeping flat on his back with all four legs sticking up in the air. So, now it looks like I hit a cat while driving, and I am too stupid to realize that rather than roll under the car, the unfortunate beast had rolled up and came to rest on the roof where kitty-rigormortis had set in.
I should have gotten a fish. A normal fish. Heck! The salesman at the pet shop could even tell me, "This here fish once shot a man a Reno, just to watch him die," and it might still bring a much-needed sense of normalcy to my world.
Okay... Now, it may not be as wicked as the picture suggests, but it's not far off. I mean, do you have any idea how tough it is to post blog entries which were written by an arthritic old hand on a legal pad? I tried everything. I took the phone off the hook, called one of the AOL dial up numbers, and rubbed the pages over the receiver to no avail. Apparently, that whole AOL-by-Phone thing has some limits (I suppose I should bring this up with Editor Joe, eh?).
Once that failed, I turned to my voodoo friend Louey. We put the pile of pages in the center of the room, chanted, tossed out some chicken bones, and sipped some Jagermeister because technology just works better that way, and though some comments did trickle in, I'm not sure if it worked completely. But, if any of you did find yourselves laughing for absolutely no reason, there's a chance that either you got my posts across the supernatural ether, or you're just plain barking mad. Either way, it's nice to know you were smiling.
It's interesting. I got my laptop home from the shop, hooked it up, and I found myself somewhat leery to turn it on. "What if I break it again?" I found myself thinking. "What if it explodes? And, just how much porn did those grubby knuckled techno-monkeys download onto this thing?"
Fortunately, all is well and shiny in the world, and this puppy fired up without a hitch. Well... almost. The light that indicates my caps-lock key is on doesn't seem to work anymore, but I can settle for that. I don't really need a light to notice that I am typing in capital letters. i'M NOT ONE OF those WEIRD PEOPLE.
Anyway, it's good to be back, but right now, I must scamper into the woods to forage for my Atkins'-friendly dinner of grubs and berries.
